


The Brock

by Tammany



Series: Mr. Spence's Repose [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, M/M, Sequel to Previous Story, sexual ambiguity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 12:30:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3529511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a continuation of a story I wrote earlier--Mr. Spence. It is not critical to have read it first, but it helps to know Mycroft's living incognito having faked his own death, and at the time of the last story only Sherlock had found him. He's living a quiet life as a web designer in a small town outside Manchester, with a horse and a dog named Archie. </p><p>I am not sure what to say, because what I'd really love is to see this played by the actors. Like some of my favorite scenes, it's inarticulate, but deeply emotional.</p><p>I hope you like it. I hope it moves a few of you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Brock

Spring came early that year—crocus and daffodils and forsythia springing up everywhere by early March. The greenfinches took over Mr. Spence’s back garden and the hedgerow of the pasture across the road where Mr. Spence grazed his big chestnut gelding. He discovered a badger’s sett along the back line as he walked the pasture, checking his land responsibly, with the same attention he’d once given world affairs.

He stood with his arms crossed, frowning down at the sett. It was situated in a corner of the pasture, where over centuries two stone walls had been woven together by the hedgerow between, forming a dense island of boulders like cliffs and spiny vegetation. Mr. Spence suspected the exit to the sett now evident was newly dug, adding to an already extensive network hidden among the stones and hawthorn roots. He clucked and sighed and hunkered into the olive-green wool of his pasture jacket. He stomped his paddock boots. His Scottie, Archie, quivered at his ankle, and whined.

“No, you daft idiot,” Mr. Spence said, fretfully. “I assure you, you’re no match for a badger. Much less an entire sett. If there are cubs…” He gave a gusty sigh that suggested resignation. “What I’m to do about it I don’t know.”

“Oi!” A voice sang out from down at the roadside, along the verge. It was a friendly voice, with the true, authentic ring of London Estuary English—the latest development from the gallimaufrey of Cockney and whatever else landed in London long enough to make its way into street parlance. “Oi!”

Mr. Spence turned to look, frowning slightly…then froze. At his ankle Archie whined again, this time uneasy….Master was upset. No one else might know—but Archie did. Master was very upset.

Archie growled, and chittered his teeth at the stranger standing by the stone fence that fronted the pasture.

The stranger lifted one arm and waved, loosely. “Oi—you there. I’m looking for… I’m…. You’re…You’re Mr. Spence, yeah?” His voice was gruff and hesitant, as though he wasn’t quite sure what to say, or who he was saying it to.

Mr. Spence nodded a large, stately nod, dramatic in its simple clarity. “I am Mr. Spence,” he called back.

Archie continued his slow growl, aware of the tension and conflicting feelings racing through Master—feelings no one else could see but Archie. No one knew Master like Archie.

Master was afraid. Master was excited, and uncertain, and happy, and angry—but most of all Master was afraid. Archie gritted out his warning and shifted close, pushing his flank up against Master’s leg to comfort him. He watched the stranger approach the big lichgate at the corner of the paddock.

“I come in?” It was a question. The voice was still gruff and hesitant.

Mr. Spence hesitated. It had been a long time since he’d seen the man. Another lifetime…

At last he gestured, waving the man in. “Come on, then.”

The man opened the gate and started across the field, only to be sent back to latch the gate securely before the gelding, ever-observant, realized it had been left open.

“He likes the occasional solo run,” Mr. Spence said, wryly.

“At least he’s not likely to go over the rooftops or through the abandoned tube tunnels.”

“Mmmmp.”

Mr. Spence watched the other man move, pretending not to watch and notice, though Archie didn’t miss it, and kept his own eyes alert on the intruder and growled. Mr. Spence and Archie saw two different things. Archie saw a tall, strange man, who smelled of cigarettes and automobiles and people—far too many people. He moved in strength and confidence. Archie had trouble with issues like age and beauty. The man was fit, though, and neither old nor young. He upset Master dreadfully…more than anyone but the blood-brother who’d come calling twice in the past year. More, perhaps, even than the blood-brother.

Indeed, to Archie the stranger was much like the blood brother. Much of a height, if heavier of build. Smelling of the same far places filled with people and cars. Smelling of cigarettes and scotch and not of heather or gorse or grass or oak scrub or anything natural at all. They moved differently, though. The blood-brother moved like a young pup determined to win standing in the pack—not just ready for a fight, but hoping to find one. Hoping to start one. This one was like an old, experienced alpha in his prime. Let the pups start the fights. This one? He’d end them.

Mr. Spence saw what was now gone. The man was older in just the two years since Mr. Spence had last seen him—since Mr. Spence had lived under another name, in another place entirely. He was still strong and fit and fair to look on, but his body and face and hair all announced things Archie could barely imagine. After all, there are limits imposed by being a three-year-old Scottish terrier with limited experience of cities.

Mr. Spence saw hair gone ever more white, sparkling in spring sunlight, and a face still boyishly bright and excited, even though time was softening, blurring, complicating the man’s features. Mr. Spence saw shoulders developing the slight rise and swell of the bull in his prime—a line that sparked unexpected longing in him. It was a manly look. All of his guest seemed manly to him—in strength and motion, in feature and form, in attitudes and alertness.

He walked across the field like what he was—a Londoner with enough time spent in the country over a lifetime to know enough to watch out for the meadow muffins and avoid tripping on tussocks of weeds—and not much more. If he was unsure of himself…

"Well," Mr. Spence said, noting what even Archie did not—that the man was very unsure of himself, and covering. "Well."

Look at the pair of us, he thought, and then shied from the thought—from even the loose idea of the two of them paired.

“Hello,” he said, instead, holding out one hand. “I’m Mr. Spence. Morgan Spence.”

The man nodded. “So I heard,” he replied, eyes studying Mr. Spence as though memorizing his face. He cocked his head and grinned. “Sherlock told me you’d gone back to full ginger and speckles,” he chuckled. “It’s a look.”

Mr. Spence pursed his lips and flicked a brow up in a high arch. “I’m sure I don’t know who you’re talking about,” he snipped, and turned his back on the man. He crossed his arms around himself and glowered down at the badger sett, frowning. He pretended not to notice the other man walking a step or two closer, though he was quick to reprimand Archie when the dog barked a challenge to warn him off.

“Hush, you unruly beast.”

“Reminds me of that mutual acquaintance you don’t admit to,” the man said, squatting down until he sat almost on his heels. He rested his elbows on his knees and clucked at Archie….who clung close to Master’s shins, trying to unravel the puzzle.

Master was afraid, and unhappy, and excited, and uncertain, and angry, and far too many other different things to make any sense when you looked at the man hunkered barely a foot away. He was an ordinary enough man. He wore jeans, like many of the small-time landowners around the little town. He wore a button-up sweater that smelled of wool and cotton and synthetics, and a knit t-shirt that smelled of laundry soap. He wore practical walking shoes. His hair shone white in the sunshine. His hands were warm, and smelled of tobacco.

Archie risked inching forward, sniffing at the man’s hand. In reward his ears were rubbed with a good deal of talent. He licked the hand…then growled and snapped once, carefully missing, just to ensure the man knew they were hardly friends yet. Not when Master was afraid and unhappy.

But Master didn’t mind. He was amused that the man was courting Archie. Archie looked up and wagged his tail. Master huffed and pretended to scold him—but Archie and the man both knew Master didn’t mind.

“So,” the man said, returning his attention to the dug-out tunnel and the heaved earth in the heaped up corner of the pasture. “Fox den?”

“Badger,” Mr. Spence said, and poked the packed earth with the tip of one sturdy paddock boot.

“Dig it up and chase it off?”

“Good heavens, no. Against the law,” Mr. Spence said. “I’d have to get approval before I did anything like that. Protected, badgers are. Even if I proved it was a threat, well… there’d be plans to make.”

“Badger, huh?” The man gave a quick laugh, then, eyes bright. “They used to call me the ‘silver fox’ after my hair went,” he said, chuckling. "Donovan always hoped I’d blush and fluster. But me, I’m more of a badger, yeah? Stubborn as sin, jaws like death, tough.” His hand crept up to the nap of his hair, with hardly any of his original brown showing anymore. Instead he looked like a dappled Andalusian stallion, pale silver blotching gleaming white. “Like I grew into who I was, you know?”

“Mmmmm.” Mr. Spence risked a wary glance over at the other man. “Hufflepuff, then?”

It took a second to register with the man, but then he shouted with happy laughter. “Aye. That’s me. Hufflepuff through and through.”

Mr. Spence smiled, but returned his attention to the sett. “The problem is that Dominic is likely enough to put his foot in. And if they’ve burrowed far under, he could go through. And then there’s Archie.” He sighed. “Archie doesn’t know he’s not up to fighting a badger, much less that it’s illegal.”

“What are you going to do about it, then?”

“What has to be done,” Mr. Spence said. He pulled the mobile out of his pocket and called a neighbor, quickly arranging for Dominic the gelding to stay a few days at a pasture down the road. Then he called wildlife management to come out and help determine a practical solution to allow the peaceful coexistence of one warm-blood hunter gelding, one young Scottish terrier, one aging self-employed web designer, and an unknown number of badgers.

“You’re very calm about it all,” the man said, watching Mr. Spence.

Mr. Spence shrugged. “Melodrama is a vastly overrated attribute,” he said, softly. “Far better suited to stage and screen than to real life. People…care so much.”

“And caring is not an advantage,” the man said, softly.

Mr. Spence shrugged. Then he snapped his fingers and started across the field with Archie running at his heels. He caught Dominic’s halter and led him to the back garden, behind the little stone cottage. He clipped a soft lead on the halter, and tied the gelding securely from an old iron hitching post with a big ring that stood near the old stone well. The horse, familiar with this, dropped his head to graze.

“I haven’t had breakfast yet,” Mr. Spence said. “You’re welcome to join me.”

“Do you still eat those terrible rye flatbreads you could use to scour the deck of an aircraft carrier?”

Mr. Spence sniffed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. “I buy perfectly ordinary bran muffins.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Bran muffins. Look, just once, lemme make you a good old fashioned fry-up. It would do you good.”

Mr. Spence opened his mouth, started to speak—and stopped. The man studied him and chuckled. “You were about to try to cite cholesterol, weren’t you?”

“It’s been established that there is no clear connection between dietary and blood cholesterol in most instances,” Mr. Spence said, and looked away from laughing brown eyes. “I don’t think I have what you need for a real fry-up,” he said, more softly.

“Let’s go in and see,” the man said.

There were the bran muffins, which Mr. Spence insisted were quite moist and sweet, and prunes, which the man simmered in a small saucepan with apple-juice and brandy. There were eggs—plenty—and while there was no bacon nor any sausages there was a ham. The man cut thin slices and fried them up in the pan. He made toast and pulled out butter and jam and honey. He fried tomatoes. While he worked he hummed softly under his breath and slipped little bites of meat to Archie, who was quickly deciding that the stranger was quite a clever notion and that the Master ought to have him visit more often.

Mr. Spence put together tea, then sat at the side of the kitchen at the plain pine table under the window, and watched his guest work.

“I didn’t know you cooked,” he said.

The man shot him an amused sideways look. “Don’t be daft. Of course I cook. Spent most my life either single or with a wife who was none too happy with me, working copper’s hours. You’re the one I worried about—wrapped up in cotton wool going on thirty years before you decided to end it all.”

Mr. Spence looked guiltily down at his fingers holding the delicate china teacup. He’d picked a handsome set, he thought, with elegant, simple lines and a cheering pattern of pansies in yellows and purples with bright green leaves. “When did you find out?” he asked. “Did Sherlock tell you?”

The man snorted. “Nothing to tell, sunshine. Remember? I’m the one brought you the news the Russians had you targeted. You think I believed for a minute you’d protect Sherlock from Moriarty—but not protect yourself from Putin?”

Mr. Spence’s head came up, eyes stricken. “You knew?”

The man tapped the side of his nose and grinned, then plated the vast heaps of breakfast ands settled in the seat on the other side of the table. He poured himself a cup of tea and prepared it to suit his tastes. He gingerly piled ham on buttered toast, and a soft fried egg on the ham, and sliced, letting the rich yolk run out over everything. He took a bite and sighed in contentment. “Tell me you don’t own your own chickens,” he said. “Damn, that’s good.”

“I don’t, but Mrs. Hitchens down the road does, and sends me a few every few days.”

“Lucky you.”

Mr. Spence sat primly in his chair, hands still wrapped around the tea cup, a feast spread in front of him. His dog leans hopefully against his ankles. Mr. Spence considered the other man. He sighed softly. “My life is not without its blessings,” he said.

The other man met his eyes, and said equally softly, “You didn’t think I’d be angry, did you?”

Mr. Spence shrugged, but his eyes were wild and hesitant. “I died,” he said. “I know men who’ve made a good attempt at manslaughter for less.”

“Oh, now, John…you can’t count John,” the man said with a roguish grin. “John and Sherlock—of course it was going to end with tears before teatime. Come on, Mike. You know me. And I know you—you did what you had to for reasons I agree with. And you never sent word, because it wasn’t safe for either of us.”

Mr. Spence wanted to ask what had changed—but he knew what had changed. Politics had changed. Time had changed. Sherlock had killed a few people. Others had killed each other. He was no longer a hunted man. “Still,” he said. “I’m surprised you came. We were never…close.”

The man shrugged, and cut another bite of egg and ham and toast. He ate it, thinking. Then he said, “You really think not?”

Mr. Spence blinked, and looked away. Years of discipline rose up wailing from memory. He said again, voice shaking. “We were professional spies. We were never close.”

“We were partners,” the man said, then pushed a basket containing muffins toward Mr. Spence. “Here—eat. You look like Sherlock. Any thinner and you’re going to blow away.”

“My doctor’s quite happy with my weight,” Mr. Spence said. But in spite of that he split a muffin and loaded it with crabapple jam, and then served himself with toast and ham and eggs of his own—and a little bowl of simmered prunes.

They said very little. Instead they ate in the sunshine looking at the golden chestnut horse grazing in the back garden.

“Are you going to put in a vegetable bed?” the man asked.

“Brown thumb,” Mr.  Spence said. “I can just manage perennials with the help of a weekly gardener. Why?”

The man shrugged. “I’ve put in raised beds in my place,” he said. “But Lun’on…you know. No light. No soil. You practically have to chew the compost yourself, there’s so few earthworms. Now out here, you’re all set. Bet you can get compost from your chicken neighbor if you like.”

“Assuming I don’t just use horse manure from Domenic,” Mr. Spence said, tartly.

“Yeah. You could do that, too,” the man said, cheerfully. “Bet you could grow tomatoes the size of a rugger ball.”

“Why would I want to?” Mr. Spence said. “A nice fist-sized slicer is all a man needs for a tomato sandwich, after all.”

“’Cause Sherlock’s growin’ veg out at that place in Suffolk,” the man said. “And you two—you can’t resist competing, now, can you?”

“Sussex,” Mr. Spence said. “Sherlock’s in Sussex. And you beat him. I’m still a working man, unlike you two lay-abouts retired and on the dole.”

“Now, now. We still take commissions,” the man said. “Not completely useless, we aren’t.” He rose and started clearing the table. “Will you wash or dry?”

“Wash,” Mr. Spence said. “I quite like my china, and I’d like to keep it whole for awhile.”

“Sarky as your brother,” the man said.

They stood beside each other at the sink. The hot water soaked into Mr. Spence’s fingers, eased the knuckles and the joints of his thumbs. He was no longer young. “If you wanted to grow veg, you could come out here,” he said. “I’d be happy to sort you out an allotment.” He grinned. “Rather like me and that old brock in the pasture: we’ll find a way to share the territory, with a bit of thought on my part.”

Before the man could answer, he opened the drain, then went out to help load Domenic into his friend’s truck, to be driven to new pasture.

The man sat at the table and patted his shin. Archie trotted over, and sighed as his ears were once again rubbed. When Mr. Spence came in again, he studied them both.

Mr. Spence was a distant man—reserved, intense, warded. It took someone like the man to read the intensity of his stare. As it was, the man met Mr. Spence’s look, heartbeat after heartbeat.

“Why did you come?” Mr. Spence said at last, his voice rough. “We were never close. The work..it was everything. It ate both our lives. Your marriage. And then I was dead. And now—it doesn’t matter. There was no need. Why did you come, if you’re not angry, like John? I’d understand if you needed to hit me. I might even let you—though I’d have to lock Archie up before you tried or he’d put a hole in your trousers and then some. But—why?”

The man shook his head, and gave him an exasperated look. “Because I missed you, you silly prat,” he said.

Mr. Spence quivered, and Archie sat up and whined.

“Mike?”

Mr. Spence turned away, jerky with stress and pain. “My word,” he said, voice shaking. “Who’d have thought?” He groped until he found the tea towel, and wiped his fingers off—for no reason in particular. Then he wiped his face and tried to pretend that was just a random action, too. “Do you think you’ll come up this way again?” he asked, trying to sound indifferent.

“Mike, you berk..”

“Don’t,” Mr. Spence said. “Don’t humor me. I’m just…a bit unprepared. People don’t miss me.” He glared reproach at the man. “It’s not done.”

Archie paced back and forth, nails clicking on the clean lino tiles of the kitchen, sensing that the emotions storming between the two men were crucial, world-changing—and having no grasp on what to do or what it meant.

“Mike…”

“People miss Sherlock,” Mr. Spence said, intensely. “Don’t you understand?” He held out his hands, desperately indicating the clean, sunny kitchen, the shining counters, the green lawns beyond. “It was easy to die—so easy. Because I’d done it right. Don’t you understand? I did it right: caring is not an advantage. When it was time to die, I could, because there was no one left to be hurt when I was gone.” He sighed, then, and drew his hands together, picking fretfully at the soft cotton of the tea towel. “Even Mummy and Father were fine, you know. I made sure they would be. People miss Sherlock. They don’t miss me.”

The man stood, then, and crossed the room, and wrapped the taller man close, with a fierce growl, half laughter and half grief and all caring. “You bastard,” he said…then laughed. “So—did you miss me, then?”

Mr. Spence, breathless and stiff and uneasy, gave a small gasp, and said, “Oh, God, yes…”

Then he wrapped himself around Lestrade and clung tight, fingers knotting into his old friend’s sweater. “God, Greg. I missed you so much.”

Lestrade smiled and shook his head. “Holmeses,” he said knowingly to Archie, who danced wildly around their legs. “I swear, they make it all so damned hard.” Then, with a smile, he murmured, “I missed you, too, Mycroft Holmes. I missed you, too.”

“Mr. Spence,” Mycroft corrected him.

“I’ll miss him some other time,” Lestrade growled. “Today I’m busy telling you how much I missed you.”


End file.
